


to douse the sun

by orphan_account



Category: Vampire: The Masquerade
Genre: F/F, Master/Slave, Unhealthy Relationships, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-19
Updated: 2014-06-19
Packaged: 2018-02-05 07:05:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1809613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a bone-deep ache settling in her body every time she cuts the broadcast, and it's not from sitting on her ass for hours.</p>
            </blockquote>





	to douse the sun

“Well, L.A., if you point those tired eyes outside, you'll see it's nearly time for the sun rise. That's my cue to sign off for the night. Keep me in your hearts – and in your dreams. I'll listen to all your dirty secrets again next time the sun goes down.”

Deb leans forward and switches the station off air. Nearly 5:30 in the morning and not a bird singing in earshot. The sky is beginning to lighten outside the curtained off window, the ghost of the sun creeping over the hotels and businesses of the Hollywood hills, but stagnation and stillness settle in like a hand around her throat.

Rise and shine, L.A. Good night, Deb.

She supposes it could be worse. The graveyard shift at the very least pulls in interesting callers, it's never boring here at KTRK. But this schedule, god, she hasn't seen a sunrise or a sunset in months. They might as well keep her chained up in here, she's a slave to a goddamn radio broadcast. Nights like this, when she's ready tear down the walls for just a glimpse of the sun, she thinks it might be worth it to blow the whole Masquerade.

“The way you handled Hatter was awfully unkind,” comes a soft croon, and Deb feels her anger diffuse like the tide going out.

“Someone's got to keep him from letting that garbage writing out to the public,” Deb says. Her smile creases her face. She can _feel_ herself aging.

“You sound tired,” Velvet says, feigning compassion like it's a craft for her to master.

“Spending eight hours talking crazies down and keeping the Masquerade up takes a lot out of a girl,” Deb admits, stretching in her old ratty office chair.

Velvet grins, like that's funny or something. Sometimes Deb really wishes she could hate her. “Maybe I could embrace you. Late nights wouldn't get you down, then.”

“I'm all yours, baby,” Deb spreads her arms wide and bares her neck. “Dig in. Drain me dry.”

“Maybe tomorrow,” Velvet says. “I had a long night.”

“Club business getting you down?” Deb asks, a taunting pout weighing her words down, and she knows she's walking a fine line. Velvet is too wrapped up in her thoughts to take offense.

“Four hunters tonight, between me and Ash alone.”

“Sounds like things are getting _serious_ ,” Deb says, tone light. There's no way Velvet can miss the sarcasm sharpening every word.

Instead of snapping at Deb, Velvet saunters over, long legs carrying her quickly, and perches on the edge of the desk. It's obvious that she's playing up the seduction, crossing her legs and leaning in close to caress the sides of Deb's face. It's for her own benefit, no doubt. It sure as hell doesn't make a difference to Deb. Velvet could be in a nun's habit and a gas mask and Deb would still be able to smell the blood thrumming under her dead skin. Just one taste, that's all she needs.

“You're thirsty, aren't you?” Velvet asks Deb, like there isn't unabashed want scrawled in the dilation of her pupils.

Deb gropes around for the words, fumbling with control over her voice as she mutters, “I am."

“Well,” Velvet purrs, leaning in so close that Deb would be able to feel her breath if she was alive, “That's just too bad.”

“What?” Deb mutters, just as Velvet leans down to nuzzle at her neck, and her stomach drops.

There is a short moment where Deb is overflowing with resentment, desperation, maybe even hatred. Velvet liked to put on the face of a kine and wear it like it's her own, but she's just like every other Toreador. Liars, bastards, so rotten on the insides that they have to keep their outsides prettied up to be any different from the sick fucks in the sewers. No matter how much you polish a piece of shit, it's still a piece of shit.

But then Velvet's teeth pierce the skin of Deb's neck, and all that anger boils away into nothingness. She slumps in her chair, complacency and comfort washing through her worn out nerves. She's flying too close to the sun, letting the current drag her out to sea, and it's the best she's felt since the last time she saw the sky grow pink and yellow with the promise of daytime.

There's worse things to be in this word than a kindred's thrall. If it wasn't for the vitae, Deb would have been old and dead fifteen years ago. So even now, when she's thirsty and tired and bloody from the mess Velvet is making of her neck, Deb decides the sun could black out and nothing but her regnant would matter.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I felt obligated to write up a vtmb drabble after beating it for like the 87th time. I know everyone has their theories about Deb but I'm so in to the idea that she's a ghoul set up by VV & co to uphold the Masquerade.


End file.
